An Old Fish Pond.

Green growths of mosses drop and bead Around the granite brink; And 'twixt the isles of water-weed The wood-birds dip and drink. Slow efts about the edges sleep; Swift-darting water-flies Shoot on the surface; down the deep Fast-following bubbles rise. Look down. What groves that scarcely sway! What "wood obscure," profound! What jungle!—where some beast of prey Might choose his vantage-ground! * * * * * Who knows what lurks beneath the tide?— Who knows what tale? Belike, Those "antres vast" and shadows hide Some patriarchal Pike;— Some tough old tyrant, wrinkle-jawed, To whom the sky, the earth, Have but for aim to look on awed And see him wax in girth;— Hard ruler there by right of might; An ageless Autocrat, Whose "good old rule" is "Appetite, And subjects fresh and fat;"— While they—poor souls!—in wan despair Still watch for signs in him; And dying, hand from heir to heir The day undawned and dim, When the pond's terror too must go; Or creeping in by stealth, Some bolder brood, with common blow, Shall found a Commonwealth. * * * * * Or say,—perchance the liker this!— That these themselves are gone; That Amurath in minimis,— Still hungry,—lingers on, With dwindling trunk and wolfish jaw Revolving sullen things, But most the blind unequal law That rules the food of Kings;— The blot that makes the cosmic All A mere time-honoured cheat;— That bids the Great to eat the Small, Yet lack the Small to eat! * * * * * Who knows! Meanwhile the mosses bead Around the granite brink; And 'twixt the isles of water-weed The wood-birds dip and drink.